


Under Lock and Key

by poubelle_squelette



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Dreamscapes, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Memories, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24028594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poubelle_squelette/pseuds/poubelle_squelette
Summary: Jak has few precious memories. Even fewer that he gets to keep for himself.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Under Lock and Key

Jak was laying on sand. The sky above him was clear and sunny, small puffy clouds and seagulls the only thing in the vast sea of blue.The sand was warm and inviting, like an old friend he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Next to him was a pail of seashells.

_Seafoam coated his feet._

_Sea breeze blew through his hair._

_Individual grains sticking to his skin._

_Seashells, ten of them, spread out in the sand that was currently getting washed by the tides._

_Jak’s first memory._

Jak picked up a dark shell from the bucket and held it close to his face. The smell of saltwater, seaweed, and sand hit his nose.The sound of birds, the feeling of joy.

**Jak; Age 4**

It was a sunny day when Joseph and Jacqueline took Jak and Jil to the beach for the first time. Warm and breezy. The beach was a hidden gem, not too far from their house on [̸̨̨͇͓̙͖̭̬͊̃Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ They carried both children down to the water, let them play. Jil went in headfirst approaching the waves with reckless abandon. Jak watched his younger sister from afar, waiting to see what she did before he approached the water. 

He toddled along the water’s edge instead, picking up seashells that interested him. Setting them up in the sand before sitting and staring at his handiwork. Yes. These shells were good. They were the best.

His mom’s laugh. 

His mom’s smile.

Her silver hair catching the light of the sun as she knelt down next to him. Her face popping to his, hers, and settling on Nanna's surprised face. “Well ain’t that somethin’?” she asked, in a voice not her own. “What d’ya got there, pumpkin?”

Jak’s laugh.

Jak’s smile.

Warmth. Love. His mother’s praise of the way he set up his seashells. “Let’s see if we can find some more. You seem to like the black and white ones, don’t you?”

Taking his hand. 

Collecting seashells with him for hours until it was time to go home.

... ... ...

Jak set the shell down, back in the bucket. In front of him on this beach was an iron gate.

He pushed past the gate, now standing in a large garden filled with exotic plants from all types of places. Herbs. Flowers.

A thorn from a rose pricking his finger.

_Droplets of blood falling from his fingers._

_Tears falling from his eyes._

_Pain._

_The first of many patched up wounds._

**Jak; Age 8**

Jak learned many things from his parents and tutors. How to read, how to write - his vocabulary was quite expansive for someone of his age. He took singing lessons. He learned the extensive list of manners he needed to know at fancy dinner parties. He was great at math. His parents allowed them into their workspace so that he was able to learn about what they were working on. Machinery, potions, medicines, inventions Jak saw _nowhere else_ in the world. His instructors loved him because he was naturally gifted. He had a sharp wit and he was good at problem-solving.

But he knew, even then, that Jil was the smart one. Reading harder texts than him. Took an out of the box approach to solving things as opposed to Jak, who took the more straightforward route. She could research better than him, remember more than him, and come to conclusions much faster than he could. The tutors _adored_ Jil for her talents, her knowledge, and her good attitude. She was clever.

He was out, pouting in the garden, angry and annoyed with his sister for besting him at everything. He was so mad, he plucked a rose straight off the bush because it was her favorite flower and he wanted to see it die.

In doing so, his fingers were pricked where they touched the rose’s stem.

He cried out, the pain in his fingers unexpected and sudden.

His father, working in the garden, came to check on him. Assess the situation. Took a look at Jak’s hand.

Antiseptic. Bandage.

A pat on the head. Reassurance.

“What’s this all about?” he’d asked. After Jak told him, his father looked at him with soft eyes. “There’s one thing your sister will never be better at than you, and it’s being a good older brother. The two of you are special, you know this, yes? You need to promise to take care of her.”

Jak took this to heart.

He promised.

...

Jil had come out of the house then, stopped to look at her beloved roses and she, too, pricked her fingers. Ow...

Jak looked at his own hand. 

He grabbed the bandages. And he patched her up as she cried. And gave her a pat on the head. Reassurance.

Jak had a big heart and he knew that making the promise he made wasn’t just to his father, but also to himself. I will always look after you Jil, no matter the cost.

It’s one of the only promises he’s ever made.

... ... ...

Jak looked up. In the middle of the garden was a grand piano. He approached it and sat down on the bench. Carefully he placed his hands on the keys, tapping them a few times each, the garden changing. He was now in his old parlor. Marble floors. High vaulted ceilings. The sounds of ticking machinery and bubbling potions in the background. Expensive vases filled with flowers carefully cut from the garden. China dishware on display. Large, full-sized windows letting in all the natural light from the day.

Jak rested his hands on the keys and began playing a song he had learned a long time ago. A song he didn’t even know he remembered - just going off of muscle memory.

_The sound of fingers hitting the piano keys in perfect succession._

_The room, filling with music. Light, airy, happy music that Jak created._

_Practicing until the sun went down._

**Jak; Age 10**

His singing instructor always insisted that Jak had perfect pitch (when Jak wasn’t pretending to be tone-deaf, that was). To Jak, it made sense that he did. Changeling and all, could make his voice sound however he wanted.

But it turned out he had an ear for music as well. His parents were insistent that he and Jil each pick an instrument when they were younger. Jak fell in love with piano the moment he placed his hands on the keys.

It was like a new world opened up for him. 

He spent hours sitting in front of the piano, playing with the keys, and trying different chords, different melodies.

The day he finished composing his first song, all by himself, he sat and played it over and over. Let his fingers flow over the ivory keys. The sound of music filling the house. It was his own piece, something he created.

He was so _happy._

And Jak kept that piece of music close to his own heart, never performing it for guests. Never performing it for family. It was something he only played for himself, when he was sad.

... ... ...

Piano was gone, but Jak was sitting on a chair in a dark room, the only light coming from behind a curtain. He stood, heading for the opening, hesitating a minute, unsure if he wanted to see what was behind it. 

...He pushed the curtain back.

Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆

_Searing pain, red hot and stinging._

_Your hands, gentle, gentler, gentle still._

_Patient. Kind. Understanding._

**Jak; Age 15**

Jak sat, alone, in a cold, dark room. There was a bed, but he couldn’t call it a bedroom. His face was burning hot, a sharp, stinging pain streaked right in the middle. The pain was unbearable. He wanted to claw at his face, rip the skin off, it’ll grow back. The adrenaline rush hadn't worn off yet, which means that this pain wasn’t even the full extent of it.

Tears pricked in his eyes. That old memory of cutting his finger on a rose bush was spiting him now. What he would give...

He was leaned against the doorway, could just make out what was going on down the hall.

“HE’S A _CHILD_!” followed by the slamming of a fist on a table.

“You were a child when you started here yourself.”

“I will NOT be--”

Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ 

“ **You will do as you’re told**.”

Footsteps. Jak scurried to the corner of the room, desperate to somehow gain the ability to turn into the wall. No, no, no, no. Don’t-

A woman. Tough looking, an earring on her eyebrow, tattoos all along her arms, weapon brandished on her hip. She approached him, kneeling down next to him. “Name’s Pearl. You’re working with me. You got any complaints, you shut the fuck up and keep them to yourself. I’ve yet to have a man die on me, so I’m not going to let some reckless, dumbass kid be the first.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a bag of powder, dipping in with her hand and grabbing some. Jak watched as the powder solidified into a gel in her hands.

She went to touch his face and Jak recoiled immediately, already disliking how familiar she was being with him, how callous she was. “You’re not my mom! I can do it myself!” he said, still trembling in pain.

Pearl regarded him with furrowed eyebrows and a frown that meant business. “I already know I’m not your mommy. If I was, you sure as hell wouldn’t be here.” She grabbed his face with her hands --boy, she was way stronger than she looked-- and pulled him towards her. “Now kindly be quiet. I know what caused that wound of yours and I’m sure it hurts like hell. So, do you want to let me do this? Or do you want to lay there, crying like a bitch for the next month, ‘cause that’s how long it’s going to take for it to stop hurting on its own.”

“...I’m not crying.”

She tenderly took care of him, ignoring his shouting and surly, fighting attitude, even though she implied that she wouldn’t put up with it.

The first and only person to show him kindness in this dark and scary place, despite him fighting her on it.

... ... ...

Jak was laying on the floor, looking up into black nothingness. He rolled over on his side. An archway. He crawled over, hoping to escape the damp, dark, cold void he felt trapped in.

Busy courtyard. People walking, moving quickly as their feet pounded against the cobblestone. His clothes were different. His hair was different. Watching. Waiting.

_Joy._

**Jak; Age 18**

Running errands.

Stealing from a market place in some town several hundred miles away from the base.

Potions. Ingredients. Food. Money. Expensive and rare items to be later sold on the black market.

Who cares.

He stole stuff all the time when he was homeless and starving.

It’s the same thing.

And then suddenly- Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆

**_No._ **

Jak turned and ran as far from the courtyard as he could to escape what was about to happen. He ducked into an alleyway, which had one cot sitting at the end.

_A mother’s love, recaptured._

_Even in this wretched place, she never faltered. Never changed._

**Jak; Age 22**

The more Pearl got to know Jak, the less harsh she was on him and the more motherly she became instead. It wasn’t easy - spending nearly his entire teenaged life and young adulthood 

working for...Ř̷̖͈̩̀͑̉͊̆͊͋ě̷̫̭̭͙̿̒̄̿͜ḑ̶̪͎̠̙̣̩̜̽͠â̴̤̗̝͍͙̽́͆̄̚c̴̖̓͆̾͆̅̋͝ͅţ̸̼͇̟͎̩̜̤̐͋̐̔̀ȩ̸̞͎͐̄ͅd̷̗̥̞͈̪͠]̶̨͙͓̼̥̣̰̮̅͋̈̓̆̃͆ and he was a stubborn and frustrated and angry enough person anyway. But she looked out and cared for him all the same. More kind and familiar with him than with her other crew members, for reasons he never found out.

He was sick, which rarely happened, and lying in his cot, face burning and stomach churning. Warm, wet washcloth on his forehead. He stirred, not remembering putting himself to bed or getting these things. The smell of warm soup filled the air.He left the room and saw Pearl standing in the kitchen.

“You-”

“Cork it,” she said before he could get any other words out. She briefly abandoned the stovetop and placed the back of her hand on his forehead. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“You shouldn’t be at my hideout, but here we are.”

Pearl let her hand drop and she returned to the pot. “Ungrateful.”

“Overbearing.”

She stirred the soup a little more. “If you die because you wouldn’t stop getting on my damn nerves, that’s going to make for a pathetic obituary.”

“Old lady beats ass of sick man, I see the paper headlines now.”

Smiles.

An understanding.

He reached around in the cupboards, grabbing a few extra items he didn’t notice on the counter. Vials and containers. A few herbs and miscellaneous healing ingredients. He started handing Pearl a few things.

“One tablespoon of this, crushed. One teaspoon of that, whole pods dumped in. Stir until the soup boils and then immediately take off the heat and add a quarter cup of this powder.”

“Don’t tell me how to make my soup.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

She gently grabbed him by the face, squeezing. It was less harsh than the first time she did it, so many years ago, but it reminded him of that moment. “You’re pissing me off.”

“Good. Then you still care.”

She released his face. “Sit down at the table before you pass out.”

He complied. Pearl brought over the bowl and a spoon, setting them down on the table with care.

“What, not going to spoon-feed me?” Jak asked.

“Sorry, did you want to suckle from my bosom too? You can do it yourself,” she sat down at the table, looking at him tensely. In part, because she would spoon feed him if he proved that he truly needed it.

The underlying meaning he took away from Pearl - never let someone else do what you can do for yourself because people weren’t nice for no reason. A lesson they’d both hard learned.

Jak ate all his soup without protest. The spoon clanked against the bowl when he was done. Pearl checked his forehead. “Still burning up,” she said, her concern now more evident. “Your fever should break soon after you rest more.”

“Mm.”

“...You sure you still want to do it tonight?”

“Chances are few and far between, Pearl. You know that.”

She pushed sweaty hair out of his face. “Yes. But you shouldn’t be stupid and go in swinging when you’re sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“For someone so good at spotting lies, you’re shit at telling them.” She raised her eyebrow, daring him to challenge her.

“Eh.”

She wrapped him up in a hug that could only be described as familial. 

“You’re smothering me, mom.”

She pulled back and swatted at him. “If you die, I’m bringing you back from the dead and killing you again myself.”

“It was calling you mom, wasn’t it? Tough as nails, kick-ass, take no shit Pearl Anchorbottom has a piece of her heart, softened only by motherly instincts.”

Reassuring shoulder squeeze. Both of them understood. Nothing needed to be said.

Jak waved her off and went back to his room.

It was the last time he ever saw her.

He regretted not staying, not taking that moment of openness and running with it as far as he could. He promised if he could ever find a moment like that again, he’d take it for everything it was worth.

The second promise he’s ever taken to heart.

... ... ...

Jak stood from the cot he was laying on. Blinked, and suddenly he was standing on the edge of a cliff. His feet were just over the ledge, one misstep and he was going to fall. But there was nowhere else to go. The bottom of the chasm, dark and bottomless. The unknown, ready to swallow him whole.

“Hey.”

Jak looked over and saw Robin standing there, hand extended. Robin gave him a wink and a smile, and Jak took his hand, interlacing his fingers.

“You ready?”

Was that Robin’s voice or his own?

It didn’t matter, because they were stepping off the side of the cliff together.

_Hot breaths._

_Deep moans._

_Limbs entangled. Each man grasping for what the other could give._

_Take it all. Cherish it._

**Jak; Age 25**

Nothing he’d ever experienced in his life. Nothing he thought he’d ever be able to experience again. Skin on skin, bodies together. A close warmth they shared, shrouded in secrets and meaning neither quite fully understood. 

Inching ever closer. Kisses in the dark. Unspoken promise. Unspoken trust. 

Take my hand and let me guide you.

Let me take yours too. 

Every touch, every motion, felt like reigniting a flame. A creation of a bond, made at the worst possible time, in the worst possible circumstances.

Caution thrown to the wind. It was that important. It was that special.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

Please, please, please. If I hold you close you can’t leave me, too.

... ... ...

Jak in darkness. Heart filled. Heart happy.

He shared _everything_. Every other moment, emotion, or shread of knowledge was shared or stolen from him. Except for a few.

He got precious few memories to keep for himself that he kept safe and stored away from everyone else.


End file.
